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Enter a Messenger.'
War. How now? What News?
Mes. The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,
The Queen is coming with a puissant Host,
And craves your Company for speedy, Counsel.
War. Why then it forts, brave Warriors let's away.
[Exeunt omnes. Enter King Henry, the Queen, Clifford, Northun b.iland,
and the Prince of Wales, with Drums and Trumpets.
Queen. Welcome, my Lord, to this brave Town of York,
Yonder's the Head of that Arch-enemy,
That sought to be encompast with your Crown.
Doth not the Obje& cheer your Heart, my Lord?
K. Henry, Ay, as the Rocks cheer them that fear cheirWrack;
To fue this fight it irks my very Soul: :
With-hold Revenge, dear God, 'ris not my fault,
Nor wittingly have I infring'd my Vow.
Clif. My gracious Liege, this too much Lenity
And harmless Pity must be laid aside:
To whom do Lioms cast their gentle Looks?
Not to he Beast that would u'urp their Den.
Whole Hand is that the Forest Bear doch lick?
Not his that spoils her young before her Face.
Who scapes the lurking Serpent's mortal sting?
Not he that lets his Foot upon her Back.
The smalleft Worm will turn, being trodden ong
And Doves will peck in safeguard of their Brood.
Ambitious Tork did level at thy Crown,
Thou smiling, while he knit his angry Brows.
He but a Duke, would have his Son a King,
And raise his Issue like a loving Sire;
Thou being a King, blest with a goodly Son,
Didit yield content to disinherit him;
Which argued thee a most unloving Father.
Unreasonable Creatures feed their Young,
And though Man's Face be fearful to their Eyes,
Yer in protection of their tender ones,
Who hath not seen them even with those Wings,
Which sometimes they have us'd with fearful flight,
Make War with him that climb'd unto their Neft,
Offering their own Lives in tþeir Young's Defence?
For Shame, my Liege, make them your President: :
Were it not piry, that this goodly Boy
Should lose his Birth-right by his Father's Fault,
And long hereafter lay unto his Child,
What my great Grandfather and Grand fire got,
My careless Father fondly gave away.
Ah, what a Shame was this? look on the Boy,
And let his manly Face, which promiseth
Successful Fortune, steel thy melting Heart,
To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.
King. Full well hath Clifford plaid the Orator,
Inferring Arguments of mighty Force:
But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear,
That things ill got, had ever bad Success.
And happy always was it for that Son,
Whose Father fır his hoording went to Hell:
I'll leave my Son my virtuous Deeds behind,
And would my Father had left me no more:
For all the rest is held at such a Rate,
As brings a thousand-fold more Care to keep,
Than in poflefon any jot of Pleasure.
Ah Cousin York, would thy b.ft Friends did know,
How it doth grieve me that thy Head is here.
Queen. My Lord, cheer up your Spirits, our Foes are nigh,
And this soft Courage makes your Followers faint:
You promis'd Knighthood to our forward Son,
Untheath your Sword, and dub him presently.
Edward, kneel down.
King. Edward Plantagenet, arise a Knight,
And learn this Lesson, draw thy Sword in right.
Prince. My gracious Father,' by your Kingly Leave,
I'll draw it as apparent to the Crown,
And in that Quarrel use it to the Death.
Clif. Why that is spoken like a toward Prince.
Enter a Messenger.
Mes. Royal Commanders, be in readiness,
For with a Band of thirty thousand Men
Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York.
And in the Towns, as they do march along,
Proclaims him King, and many Ay to him.
Darraign your Battel, they are near at hand.
Clif. I would your Highness would depart the Field, The Queen hath best Success when you are absent.
Queen. Ay, good my Lord, and leave us to our Fortune. K. Henry. Why that's my Fortune too, therefore I'll stay, North. Be it with Resolution then to fight.
Prince. My Royal Father, cheer these Noble Lords, And hearten those that fight in your Defence: Unheath your Sword, good Father; cry St. George.
, . March. Enter Edward, Warwick, Richard, Clarence,
Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers.
Edw. Now perjur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for Grace,
And set thy Diadem upon my Head;
Or bide the Mortal Fortune of the Field:
Queen. Go rate thy Minions, proud insulting Boy,
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in Terms,
Before thy Soveraign, and thy lawful King?
Edw. I am his King, and he should bow his Knee;
I was adopted Heir by his Consent;
Since when, his Oath is broke: for as I hear,
You that are King, though he do wear the Crown,
Have caus'd him, by new Ad of Parliament,
To blot out me, and put his own Son in.
Clif. And reason too:
Who should succeed the Father, but the Son ?'
Rich. Are you there, Butcher? O, I cannot speak.
Clif. Ay, Crook-back, here I stand to answer thee,
Or any he, the proudest of thy fort.
Rich. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rmtland, was it not?
Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfy'd.
Rich. For God's sake, Lords, give Signal to the Fight.
War. What say'st thou, Henry,
Wilt thou yield the Crown?
Queen. Why how now, long.tongu'd Warwick, dare you When you and I met at St. Albans last,
[fpeak? Your Legs did better Service than your Hands.
War. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine.
Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled.
War. 'Twas not your Valour, Clifford, drove me thence.
North. No, nor your Manhood that durft make you stay.
Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently,
Break off the Parley, for scarce I can refrain
The Execution of my big-swolu Heart
Upon that Clifford, that cruel Child -killer.
Clif. I flew thy Father, call'st thou him a Child
Rich. Ay, like a Daftard, and a treacherous Coward,
As thou didst kill our tender Brother Rutland :
But e'er Sun set, I'll make thee curse the Deed.
K. Henry. Have done with Words, my Lords, and hear me speak.
Queen. Defie them then, or else hold close thy Lips.
K. Henry. I prithee give no Limits to my Tongue, I am a King, and privileg'd to speak.
Clif. My Liege, the Wound that bred this Meeting herę Canoot be cur’d by Words, therefore be still.
Rich. Then, Execution, re-unsheath thy Sword:
By him that made us all, I am refolv'd
That Clifford's Manhood lyes upon his Tongue.
Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no :
A thousand Men have broke their Fafts to Day,
That ne'er shall dine, unless thou yield the Crown.
War. If thou deny, their Blood upon thy Head, For York in justice puts his Armour on.
Prince. If that be right, which Warwick says is right, There is no Wrong, but every thing is right.
War. Who ever got thee, there chy Mother stands,
For well I wot, thou hast thy Mother's Tongue.
Queen. But thou art neither like thy Sire nor Dam,
But like a foul mishapen Stigmatick,
Mark'd by the Destinies to be avoided,
As venomous Toads, or Lizards dreadful Stings:
Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English Gilt,
Whole Father bears the Title of a King,
(As if a Kennel should be call'd the Sca)
Sham'st thou nor, knowing whence thou art extraught,
To let thy Tongue detect thy base-born Heart.
Edw. A Wisp of Straw were worth a thousand Crowns,
To make this shameless Callet know her self.
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy Husband may be Menelaus,
And ne'er was Agamemnon's Brother wrong'd
By that falle Womar, as this King by thec.
His Father revell'd in the Heart of France,
And tam'd the King, and made the Dauphin stoop:
And had he match'd according to his State,
He might have kept that Glory to this Day.
But when he took'a Beggar có his Bed,
And grac'd thy poor Sire with his Bridal Day,
Even then that Sun-fhine brew'd a Shower for him,
That wash'd his Father's Fortunes forth of France,
And heap'd Sedition on his Crown at home:
For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy Pride?
Hadit thou been meek, our Title still had flept,
And we in Pity of the gentle King,
Had Nipe our Claim until another Age.
Cla. But when we faw our Sunshine made thy Spring,
And that thy Summer bred us no encrease,
We set the Ax to thy usurping Root ;
And though the Edge hath something hit our selves,
Yet know thou, fince we have begun to strike,
We'll never leave, 'till we have hewn thee down,
Or bath'd thee growing with our heated Bloods.
Edw. And in this Resolution I defie thee,
Not willing any longer Conference,
Since thou deny’dit the gentle King to speak.
Sound Trumpets, ler our bloody Colours wave,
And either Victory, or else a Grave.
Queen. Stay, Edward
Edw. No, wrangling Woman, we'll no longer stay.
These Words will cost ten thousand Lives this Day.
Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwick,
War. Fore-spent with Toil, as Runners with a Race,
I lay me down a little while to breathe :
For Strokes receiv’d, and many Blows repaid,
Have rob’d my strong-knit Sinews of their Strength,
And fpight of spight, needs must I rest a while.
Enter Edward running.
Edw. Smile, gentle Heav'n; or strike, ungentle Death;
For this World frowns, and Edward's Sun is clouded.
War. How now, my Lord, what hap? What hope of good?
Cla. Our Hap is Loss, our Hope but sad Despair,
Our Ranks are broke, and Ruin follows us.